


Intertwined

by lemurious



Series: Arda Forged [4]
Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Dagor-nuin-Giliath, Fëanor's Last Stand, Healing, Innumerable Stars 2020, M/M, Nuclear Silmarils
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:54:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27132116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lemurious/pseuds/lemurious
Summary: Fëanor is surrounded by six Balrogs and disappears in a fiery blaze. There is nobody left to bury as the Balrogs speed back towards Thangorodrim.Perhaps, not alone.
Relationships: Fëanor | Curufinwë/Morgoth Bauglir | Melkor
Series: Arda Forged [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1839175
Comments: 11
Kudos: 25
Collections: Innumerable Stars 2020





	Intertwined

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Harp_of_Gold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Harp_of_Gold/gifts).
  * Inspired by [As Lark Falls Headlong](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26343043) by [Mertiya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mertiya/pseuds/Mertiya). 



Three, he can master. Focused on footwork and distance, remembering his old swordmaster – “ _Line them up! Do not get yourself in between your opponents! Make them crowd each other!”_ The same phrases he later used to teach his sons at Formenos, at least those who showed any interest in swordplay. All of them are now engaged with the Balrog assault force that suddenly burst from the skies and landed on the permafrost like falling stars, followed by ordinary soldiers dropping from the clouds under pale shining globes collapsing like jellyfish off the shores of Tol Eressëa. Through what sorcery, he does not know, but it has _Melkor_ written on it as clearly as if he signed his name in Tengwar after having learned the script from Fëanor himself.

_(He remembers the evening when the doors of his forge opened and the strange prisoner Vala strode in. The one everyone by then had grown tired of talking about. His iron-toed boots flicking sparks off the stone threshold, or was it just a trick of light?_

_The insouciant sway of his hips and the smirk hiding just behind his eyes as he said: “They speak of a new writing system, and as my accounts in Utumno need something better than the rudimentary glyphs we have been using, will you kindly show it to me?” The gasp that escaped past the sarcasm and the swagger when Fëanor began to explain how Tengwar worked._

_The reverential flow of letters under Melkor’s plume. His name, both their names, intertwined.)_

But that was back in the golden days without night, when the lord of the fortress of darkness – that darkness imposed by the Valar on the entire continent, as he would not cease to mention bitterly – was but a meek shadow of himself, his true thoughts hidden in pauses between phrases so polite nobody could find any fault in them. Now Mel – _Morgoth,_ Fëanor reminds himself – is sending the _fourth_ Balrog at the puny Noldor force marching to the gates of Thangorodrim to take back what is theirs – and Fëanor forces away the treacherous thoughts, makes _theirs_ mean him and his sons alone. As the fifth Balrog lands behind him, Fëanor turns and stumbles and decides that all he can do now is try to draw them away from the rest.

He is surprised at how easily the Balrogs follow, he thought the Maiar somewhat more cunning, but what are they other than simple spirits of fire, after all? _What is he, other than a simple spirit of fire, unquenchable, leaving nothing but ashes to inherit?_

In a sudden clasp of thunder, the sixth Balrog lands only a few feet in front of his face, stretching out the whip to steady himself.

Fëanor is fully surrounded now. The peaks of Thangorodrim, darker than stone, smoother than ice, are ablaze in starlight, and fire rushes out of the hidden chimneys in rhythmic bursts. _What wonders could he have been manufacturing, and here they fight with sword and spear_ , Fëanor thinks. _What wonders could they have engineered together, had he not launched at Morgoth in blame of his father’s death, his body bleeding at their feet, for surely Morgoth’s hand had dealt the fatal wound, nor had he denied it._ Fëanor desperately scrambles for happier memories, trying to make his last thought not be regret - and that is when the Balrog speaks.

“I am Gothmog, Sergeant of Angband. My Lord sends you his greetings and desires your company. Will you go willingly?”

Fëanor considers saying, _no, get thee hence, thou jail-crow of Mandos, back to the prison from whence thou came_. But - _desires your company -_ both of them have always been overly precise with words. Words written in Fëanor’s new script, words carrying the intoxicating taste of power and freedom, of possibilities, salt and iron and sparks on their tongues. He did not shun Melkor at his gate in Formenos back then, no matter how much he would have liked to forget about it, and he will not do so now.

“I will”, Fëanor says, and flames erupt from the ground as he rises, cradled between two Balrogs firmly holding him under his arms. The fire eventually turns to smoke and ashes as he floats above the battlefield, into the bitter cold, over the walls of Thangorodrim to the top of a minor tower, to Mor – to _Melkor_ awaiting him there, wrapped in a black cloak, his face scarred, his eyes shining with the same fire Fëanor remembers, and not a Silmaril in sight.

Fëanor is not sure how to confront Melkor, or if confronting is what he means to do. He is aware that the blood of Elves stains his hands as deep as Melkor’s, and vaguely expects enmity, expressed as torture and contempt _(though, deep inside, he knows that he is far too precious for both)_ and cannot begin to guess which would hurt him more. He tries for defiance:

“What will you have done with me, now that you have me in your hands?”

“ _With_ you? That will depend on your own desires. _To_ you, nothing, except, perhaps, offering you respite from the fire of the Silima that both of us have shared, and I have survived. And my Lieutenant has discovered a way to treat it.”

Fëanor falls silent. How could Melkor know about the nausea, the cold sweat, the aches in his body, the certainty that, little as he has handled the Silmarils, he is destined to suffer the pain of their deadly fire until his body no longer held or his spirit ran out?

“Charitable, are you now?” he snarls in Melkor’s face. “Thief – and murderer – “

“I only took the light we both were planning to steal from Valinor, and as for murderer – “ Melkor stops and stares at Fëanor, his eyes darkened, the white scars on his face clear in starlight, and Fëanor does not want to hear, does not want to even _consider_ what Melkor may say.

Melkor sees it in Fëanor’s face, and sighs. “You are no stranger to killing either.”

And they both know it is not what he meant to say, they both know they will never ask who was the murderer of Finwë in that skirmish right as they were trying to escape from Formenos with Silmarils in their hands. Afterwards, the Silmarils in Melkor’s hands alone, now scorched black by their fire. And an Elf and a Vala, cutting their way through to these shores, bound in blood and light, beyond all rage and revenge, beyond any oaths but their very first one, _not to use the Silmarils in battle_. The only one they have kept.

“What shall I do?” Fëanor asks, whether himself or Melkor, he is not sure.

“Your death will be recorded in history, and mourned by those who will be better kings than you could aspire to become. As for the rest - there is a fire in you that is matched by few this side of the Sea. Perhaps, by only one other. You may tend it or squander it, as you wish. “

 _Get thee hence_ , Fëanor thinks again. How dare Melkor offer this kind of temptation? After all, now he is dead to the world, killed by Balrogs at the gates of Thangorodrim. But would Fëanor accept a place in ruling - one _third_ – of the empire, and his name burned from Elven history forever? Would he pay that price for his boldest feats of engineering that he knows he could conceive here, while his sons are still fighting what he now realizes will become a hopeless, protracted war?

“I will accept your offer of healing, and will thank you for it,” Fëanor responds, his mind whirling with possibilities. “As for the rest, there is nothing for me here. Not now. You know the Silmarils cannot be shared, and will take down the entire Beleriand if broken. And how could I not feel like a traitor every time I watch your armies march home victorious over my kin?

“I will go. I _have_ to go,” Fëanor keeps explaining himself, though he cannot tell why. “There can be no rest for me here, only guilt. I will march East. To Cuiviénen, and past it, to where no Elf has set foot yet.” He thinks, it may bring him a kind of peace, and offer him a chance to be forgotten, and perhaps, one day, he may return.

Melkor reads that possibility in the determination of Fëanor’s eyes, in the stretch of his shoulders, and comes closer, so close they can hear each other breathe. Fëanor feels he is floating in a dream - _they must be mourning him for dead, and he had not felt as alive, as full of doubts instead of the single-minded surety of pain and anger, since before Formenos_ \- and stretches out his hand, tentatively, towards Melkor's face, scars and all.

Melkor's breath hitches, and in a blur of motion he turns to the side, pulls out a dagger, slashes across Fëanor’s palm and collects his blood into a goblet on a windowsill, which held – wine or water, Fëanor cannot tell, now it is dark red and thick and he cannot contain a sound of surprise and regret. Soon the bleeding slows down and eventually, stops. This whole strange act has taken a couple of minutes at most.

“You will always be welcome here,” Melkor says, and his voice quivers with exertion. “The gates of Angband may be closed and locked, but your blood, and the blood of your kin, will open all doors, for as long as my towers stand and – our – Silmarils sustain my armies.”

 _It is a promise,_ Fëanor thinks, watching Melkor walk out of the chamber with just a barest hint of a stumble, _perhaps, for more than these or any words can hold_ , and in a few days, as the last traces of his Silima sickness are beginning to vanish, he is ready to face a journey towards the East.

**Author's Note:**

> For the amazing Harp_of_Gold as a gift for Innumerable Stars 2020. One day I hope to be able to write half as well as you do, please accept it as a tiny tribute to the incredible characterization of Melkor in Build Up A New Us. <3 
> 
> Inspired by Mertiya's [As Lark Falls Headlong](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26343043). This is a possible explanation why Maeglin's blood opened the doors of Angband. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are very much appreciated!


End file.
